Wednesday, June 30, 2004

The Cross of St George

"Except, if you don't mind me saying so, they appear to be covered in swastikas."

"That's right, Hans."

"But isn't the swastika a symbol of bigotry and racism and a reminder of one of the most shameful periods of our recent history?"

"That's where you're wrong, Hans. The swastika is an ancient Vedic symbol, usually assumed to represent the sun. I'm reclaiming it from the racists."

"Oh. But isn't the red background also typical of the National Socialist stylings of that very symbol?"

"Not at all, Hans. I wish to express my sympathy for the original, socialistic aims of the Munich Workers' Party, as expressed in the Fourteen Points, resolved in 1919. That the symbol was later appropriated by a fascist clique is all the more reason for those of us who truly believe in a socialist Germany to hang out the swastikas."

"I see. Do you not feel that it might be construed by some to be a little insensitive?"

"Not at all. Those people are namby-pamby liberals with no sense of national pride. They should probably be gassed to death."

Thursday, May 06, 2004

You'll like this...not a lot!

Some of you know that I perform comedy. Some of you know that performing comedy ocasionally means performing in variety-type shows with all sorts of interesting people. Some of these interesting people are wizards.

That's right.

Sometimes, when the compere says: "We're going to have a quick break now, and when we come back: a lecture on 21st -century sorcery!" he isn't, in the slightest way, shitting you. Some people would find it tactless to see the lecturer backstage and tell him what a good concept for an act you think he's got, only to meet the stony glares of the truly insane. Some of you should have been at Oh! Arts in Bethnal green tonight.

There will be no comedy tonight, my children. There will be, instead, a large man with a thin strip of a beard telling you about how 'certain parts of the magic fraternity will do anything to impress' and a Powerpoint presentation on sigils. Oh yes, a Powerpoint presentation on sigils.

What is a sigil? (slide of the word 'sigil' written in big red letter on a bklack background) A sigil is just a symbol to which we attach a concept (many slides of logos and heiroglyphs) And what's the best way to get into the right frame of mind for dealing with sigils? And, before you say it, I know many magical traditionalists are going to get very upset about this...(slide with 'WANKING AND FUCKING' on it).

Other highlights included the lines: "By the time you leave here tonight each of you will be able to raise his right hand." and "Most people think of this as a radical offshoot of the eighties' Chaos Magic Movement". No, David. Most people don't. "Sigils dealt with this way will work fine for smaller things, apart from curses." No explanation given.

Use of the IMDB is most definitely cheating, answers in the comments box (extra marks will be awarded for ingenuity). There probably won't be a prize, except knowing that you are cleverer than me. Or I might get you a drink...

Sunday, March 28, 2004

Gratuitous self-promotion

Buy goods with my face on! Just think, I could be on your pants this evening. Yes, there's Insult to Injury merchandise available. Some of it's quite sexy. And it will make me richer if you buy it. Buy it.

Saturday, February 14, 2004

There are three different St. Valentines...

Each and every one's a fucking martyr.

So, as you mouth the platitudes your latest prop against self-sufficiency wants to hear mumbled across the pillow this morning, remember this:

1) Married people get more cancer. Nuns and eunuchs have the lowest rates of cervical and prostate cancer recorded (there are no recorded cass of prostate cancer in eunuchs). These people don't tend to be married.

2) One of you will die first. And they'll probably wait until you're old and incapable to do it. The nurses might change your nappies, and wipe the mashed potato from your chin, but they're not going to fellate you the way you really like. Constantly.

3) It's a statistical improbablity that you're soulmates. There are 7 billion people in the world. If we each get one soulmate, you're probably not even on the right continent. Chances are, yours is Chinese.

4) You can name ten people more attractive than the one you're spending today with. And if you can't, I will. Unless you are David E. Kelley.

Friday, February 13, 2004

Your new, soaraway, broadsheet Sun!

Tuesday, February 10, 2004

Schadenfreud

Sunday, February 08, 2004

Mindpiss

One of the problems with discussing the Hutton report has been the sheer number of things in it that simply beggar belief. One just doesn’t know where to start. Indeed, the Guardian’s 12-page report on its contents consisted almost entirely of outraged spluttering, and articles that read: “Wha…? But the…? And the…? But…But…Wha-aa…?”

So effective has this been in dissuading anyone from attempting any serious analysis of the 192,000 word monstrosity, that one of its more baffling and frightening passages has gone almost completely without comment.

In his statement on the report’s publication Lord Hutton said: “I consider that the possibility cannot be completely ruled out that the desire of the prime minister…may have subconsciously influenced Mr Scarlett and the other members of the JIC.”

And again:

“[T]he prime minister…may have subconsciously influenced Mr Scarlett”

Literally, that Number Ten doesn’t have to actively meddle in the workings of the security services because it is well-versed in mind-control techniques far beyond the ken of mere mortals.

It is not made clear how the prime minister came by these awesome powers, or, indeed, how he exercises them, but the thought of Tony Blair saying to John Scarlett “And whenever you hear this piece of music [cue Baccara’s Yes, Sir I Can Boogie] you will feel the need to drop your trousers, and insert claims with which you are unhappy into intelligence dossiers” is one that should fill us all with fear.

If the assertion is that the prime minister himself has control over the subconscious minds of members of the civil service, is it not reasonable to assume that Lord Hutton himself was in the grip of these diabolical powers as he analysed the million words given in evidence to the enquiry?

It seems odd that there has been no call for an inquiry into how Tony Blair can, apparently, force members of the security services to act against their better judgement, simply through the use of dolls stuffed with human hair, and a selection of judiciously-placed pins.

And if the idea that the very services designed to analyse data regarding Britain’s security have all slipped under the control of someone who makes Paul McKenna look like a cheap, washed-up fraud weren’t frightening enough, let us consider how far these powers might extend.

Things to look forward to in the future may well include:

· About to deliver a withering attack on the government’s education policy in Prime Minister’s Questions, Michael Howard dropping to all fours, and barking like a dog until restrained by Black Rod.

· On the News at Ten, Peter Sissons, tears welling in his strangely-glazed eyes, telling the nation: “We’re sorry, all right? We’re shits. We’re shit at journalism, we’re shit at making sitcoms, and most of us lead horribly unfulfilled lives. We’re just so fucking sorry.” before clawing at his face until it bleeds.

· Crowds of angry protestors, burning copies of The Butler Report (which not only exonerates Tony Blair completely, but suggests that he be canonised and made Head of the Church of England), suddenly turning to each other, embracing, and starting to chant “Five more years! Five more years!”

Saturday, January 24, 2004

I promised myself I wouldn't do this any more...

Upon perusal...

So there it is then. This thing they call a mirror. Audacious, yes, and thoroughly that at that. It knows no fear. Shame is, to it, just a word that rhymes with 'game' in the intricate poetry of its heart. It stares blankly at me, and for a moment, for ever just such a momomenticle, I hate it.

"I don't have to put up with this, you know!" I say loudly and without stammers. It flinches. Or does it? It does.

Or. Does. It?

This thing, this reflective and refractive sheet of hell does not judge. It just stares dumbly like a mong in a washing machine. All of its faults are mine. And this is tragedy, This, my friends, is where it all starts to fall oh-so-ever apart.

I could pick the spot. The spot it is showing me. I could do that, but that's just another coda in this dance we know so well, but out of which neither of us can us out break. This is a time for new definitions, for the rewriting of contracts. This is a time for men with biros to scribble out history's polite standards, and draw knobs in the margin. I am man. I am mint-fresh. I am covered in thought-boils, each bursting into a clerihew.

Who, then, will emerge victorious from this, the age-old battle? I pull my knob out for shock value. The mirror doesn't seem surprised. Something, deep inside yet only just out of reach; my bongo-playing, palm-fronded, musk-buttocked self, frolicking in the sands of prehistory is wanking in my soul.